The Ruin of Angels--A Novel of the Craft Sequence

by Max Gladstone

  Gal, striding forward, smiled like a woman coming home. Light burned in jewel dots down her spine, tracing the tree roots of her nerves. A golden glow spread from them, from her heart, to her hands. One step, and she might have been a trick of candleflame and mirrors. Two steps, and her arms were clad in solid light. Three steps, and she was a halo.

  When the first Wrecker lashed her, she caught its tentacles and threw it over the gantry edge. It fell, casting fleshy lines in all directions to catch itself and swing back. The metal spider tensed, and leapt. The gantry bent with the speed of the spider’s departure; it caught the Wrecker in midair. Gal struck the second Wrecker in the chest with her elbow, so hard it tumbled back into the third that climbed up from below. Tentacles slipped off the light that clad her, and in a blink Gal held a blade like sunrise on an ocean’s breast. The blade flashed out, and Izza heard a watery scream.

  She heard softer sounds behind her: two damp thuds like wet leaves dropped from a height. She turned. Two Wreckers crouched by the spear, arms unspooling.

  One jumped for her, but Isaak got there first. He went down, roaring as his scales bent in the Wrecker’s grip; he tore one of its arms loose, then tried to sink his claws into its throat, only for it to snare him with more limbs. His knees buckled. Izza was there already, on the Wrecker’s back, knife out. Her stomach turned as the blade slid into flesh. There were humans beings in these things, yes, but monsters outside. Her knife came out slick with purple, not red, and she did not know whether she felt relieved.

  The fight got ugly. She saw the world in flashes, too godsdamn many things to hold in her head at once.

  Two Wreckers held Gal’s arms; she anchored herself on the shaking gantry and swung one into the other and they went down in a squelch of flesh and crack of bone.

  Zeddig, snared by a Wrecker from beneath, knelt, veins popped out against her skin, teeth gritted.

  Zeddig screamed, drew a knife, cut the tentacle free.

  Isaak slammed his Wrecker’s head against the gantry, again and again and again. He tore rubbery flesh with his teeth.

  More Wreckers joined the fray from both sides; Raymet tossed small dark spheres underhanded, and the spheres spoke with voices of curling chaos, and Wreckers fell, but others caught them before they fell too far.

  Ley stared vacant into the fray, seeing visions. A tentacle caught her leg; she drew her knife automatically, slashed down—too late. Even through the pulse of blood in Izza’s ears, she heard Ley’s leg snap.

  Izza moved as fast as the Lady could make her. Gal danced with monsters and blade: she was a woman of gold. Zeddig fought with her long knife, and Ley collapsed against the shuddering catwalk, and Isaak roared and tore and slammed and turned and broke, and Raymet threw weapons and dodged and fought, and still they were losing.

  * * *

  “We have to do something.”

  Tara stared into the Wastes, unblinking. Kai followed her gaze, and flinched away from the pain of dying gods. Tara: “Hm?”

  “My sister’s in there.”

  Tara bared her teeth, not smiling. “I can’t go against Bescond directly. No matter how much I’d like to. We have an agreement.”

  “There’s more to life than godsdamn agreements,” Kai said, and heard how she sounded, especially to a Craftswoman, for whom there wasn’t.

  “I know,” Tara said, which surprised her. “That’s why I’m thinking.”

  Kai blinked. Their alliance, if that’s what it was, felt so tenuous: a few seconds’ doubt and she shifted Tara from partner to enemy. Granted, Kai hadn’t had the best run rate with trust recently, but even paranoia had its limits. “How can you help?”

  Tara turned back to the tower, and closed her eyes—looking on the world as a Craftsman, seeing the reality behind reality, the realm of souls and faith. “They’ll be fighting soon.”

  “What can you see?”

  “Enough. I can’t tell you the color of their hair, whether they’re happy or sad. I can see deals they’ve made, geases and enhancements, all the ways they’ve sold themselves. I can see the building, too, its contracts and compromises. Points where its wards have frayed.”

  “Can you break those wards?”

  “At this distance?” Tara frowned. “I think so. Can you still talk to your friend?”

  “At this distance?”

  Tara grinned. “I thought I liked you.”

  Kai reached into her jacket pocket, then cursed. “Out of pins.”

  “Bloodletting.” Tara shook her head. “Old-fashioned.”

  “I’m a traditional girl. I have a knife in my purse.”

  The Craftswoman reached for her heart, and the world dimmed. “Here. Use mine.”

  * * *

  Blue fire seared Izza’s mind, and she fell. This, she thought, is not a good time. But the sweep of a Wrecker’s tentacle overhead, where she had just been standing, excused the interruption.

  This was you, she prayed. You fucked this up. You brought them here.

  We need the knife.

  Of all the godsdamn dumb ideas. I could have gotten the knife on my own.

  Bescond promised—

  You trusted the cop to keep her promises.

  I’m sorry.

  You sure talked a good game, about how much you learned from last time . . .

  Can I make it up to you by getting you and your friends out of there?

  What have you got?

  A burst of images and emotion later, she forced herself off her knees, and ran to Zeddig. The woman stood with her back to the spear, one arm around Ley, the other stabbing Wrecker tentacles. “I can get us out,” Izza shouted. “Down four floors and over. There’s a hole in the security. I saw it.” The wall near Zeddig blued. Fuck. Izza’s eyes were glowing again. She’d have to talk to the Lady about that.

  “Down?” Zeddig said. “How do you plan to—” And then she got it. “That’s crazy. We’ll die.”

  “Don’t worry.” Ley had recovered enough to show her teeth, not quite enough to grin. “If we fall, the Wreckers will catch us.”

  Zeddig tossed her a rope. “Can you tie this to the middle of the bridge?”

  “Sure,” Izza said, though she wasn’t. “Isaak!” She didn’t waste time on conversation, just charged onto the gantry, toward the cyclone of light that was Gal in action. Three tentacles had snared the Camlaander’s left leg; they could not break her, but hold her, yes. She fought anyway, vicious and holy as the sun.

  Isaak lurched beside Izza, growling prayers through his pain. He caught a Wrecker and heaved it over the side. A tentacle grazed her, but he clawed it off. She tied a rope to each gantry rail, tugged the knots to test them, and ran back toward the spear. One rope for Ley and Zeddig. (“Can you make it?” “I think I can spare us”—a grunt through gritted teeth as Ley tried her broken leg—“the shame of failure.”) One for Raymet and Izza. Isaak and Gal could make the jump alone, unaided.

  More wet thuds against the spear below the bridge. Izza stuck her neck out over the abyss, and saw two Wreckers climbing up. “We’re out of time!”

  “Gal!” Raymet cried.

  Gal turned, and spent a second pondering the situation, during which she knocked one Wrecker to the side with a spinning kick, and cut her leg free. She ran—but Wreckers caught her again, and again she broke away. Three more snared her. Another cut, another break. Five, this time. Six, two on each leg, one on each arm. A Wrecker landed on her back, its arms and legs wrapping hers. Gal seemed, briefly, perplexed.

  Then she grinned.

  Not with the Wrecker’s sick pleasure, no. She grinned like someone meeting a friend she long thought lost. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll catch up.”

  Zeddig nodded, mute, and wrapped the rope around her wrist. Izza reached for Raymet.

  “She’s not coming.” Raymet’s face was empty.

  “Raymet,” Zeddig said, “there’s no time.”

  But what else exists save time? Heartbeats, breaths, intervals of decisio
n: Izza saw Raymet look at Gal, at Zeddig, at the rope. She did not waste the time to shake her head. She ran onto the catwalk toward Gal, knife in one hand, wrench in the other.

  Zeddig tried to catch her, but she was gone, into the coils and the light.

  Izza hated herself for being the one who said: “We have to go!” A Wrecker landed on the underside of the catwalk and scuttled toward them, arms woven through holes in the grating.

  Zeddig cursed and staggered onto the bridge, holding Ley. For a moment Izza thought she’d go too, after her friends, and they’d all fall together beneath layers of thrashing arms.

  Then she jumped.

  They tumbled, Ley’s arms around Zeddig’s shoulders, hers around her waist. Izza followed on her own rope, and prayed: Come on, Lady. I’m not asking much. Wind carved tears from her face. She swung through the dark and fell and rolled and landed and she was still alive, on a gantry four stories down. Isaak landed seconds later, covered in Wrecker goo. Ley screamed; she’d struck her leg in the fall.

  Izza rolled, tripped, stumbled toward the door. It was ringed in reddish light; she pressed against it and it did not open. She cursed.

  Then the light went blue, and it did.

  * * *

  “Forty feet?” Kai asked.

  Tara shook her head. “Twenty-five. Blue door. No, green door. Three floors down after that. Don’t try the knob—just hit it with her shoulder. Then, right, and down the first stair you see, far as you can”

  “You’re not sure if it’s blue or green?”

  “I can’t see light like this, just contracts. The security system documentation’s in Imperial, and their words for blue and green—”

  “Green, okay.” Pause. They circled the tower. “Bescond must have left a rear guard.”

  “Maybe,” Abernathy said. “But she only has so many Wreckers, and Zeddig has a good team. Bescond’s best chance was to hit them all at once. Besides, she didn’t expect the building’s security to fail. Wow.”

  “Wow?”

  Tara said: “That’s interesting.”

  “Interesting isn’t good.”

  “I wish you could see this. I didn’t know your sister had a Knight on her team.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah.” Tara’s nod: slow, exaggerated emphasis. “She’s strong, too.”

  “I thought they were all out slaying dragons and committing atrocities.”

  “Guess not.”

  “How does chivalry square with a life of crime?”

  “Maybe you can ask her, when the dust settles.”

  “Okay,” Kai said. “They’re down the stairs. What’s next?”

  * * *

  Izza led them through the dark. Doors opened, doors closed. Zeddig and Ley made a lurching three-legged race of it, Ley supporting herself with one hand against the wall, teeth gritted as they ran. The tower swayed with the battle they’d left behind. Ceiling panels shook. Izza wondered who Gal was, and for what purpose she’d been made. She was not certain she wanted to know.

  They ran. Kai spoke to her through the Lady—turn left, down those stairs, double back, third door on the right, trace the circle with your thumb, three times clockwise and one half counter-turn. Down again, down always and forever.

  Isaak loped beside her, dark skin showing between his cracked armor plates. He did what she said, when she said it. Looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, and in his eyes she saw something that would have scared her, years ago. Now she knew it too well. That was how you looked at a priestess, a saint. That was not how you looked at a friend.

  “She spoke to you,” he said, awed, as they rattled down a flight of stairs. “She’s speaking through you now.”

  There was too much to say, and she didn’t want to say any of it, so she used running as an excuse not to. Gods. Lady, she did not sincerely pray, why don’t you take this one for me, enlighten my friend as to what the fuck is going on. You and he are clearly on speaking terms. Or maybe you’ve kept quiet because you don’t want him to know, because he might tip your hand to the squids about how you sneak through their arms, climb into the crevasses they can’t reach. Maybe you don’t want to spill all goods on the first date?

  “What does it feel like?” he asked. “I’ve only ever—just a shadow. A touch. And you—”

  “Right,” she said, and they ran right, and “down,” and they ran down. “Loading dock.”

  “Loading dock,” Zeddig echoed.

  Ley tried to speak, but groaned.

  Izza could not hear the Wreckers following—but then, she would not hear them until it was too late, not under the noise of their running feet. Wreckers moved in silence, struck and darted, too fluid to track. She never thought she’d miss the Penitents at home—at least you could feel those monsters coming. The Wreckers might lurk around any corner, coiled hungry shadows, breathing their sick joy. Not around this turn, though. Not the next.

  Ground floor. Throw a chair through the plate glass window into the stockroom, good, glass shards everywhere, just what we needed. Isaak helped Zeddig lever Ley over the windowsill, then vaulted through, his armored palms blunting the broken glass. He offered Izza a hand, which she accepted, though it meant she’d have to see that look on his face again.

  Zeddig, panting, clutched Ley as if the woman held her upright, rather than the other way around.

  “Straight shot through storage,” Izza said. “There’s a small door to the left of the big,” she gestured, so vague with exhaustion she wasn’t sure herself whether the movement described a box or a window or an arch or a, “garage door thing.”

  Zeddig nodded. She breathed too hard, too heavily. Her eyes slid past Izza without focusing. She’d run down the spire, carrying Ley and her gear, and she was human, as far as Izza’d been able to tell. In excellent shape, but only human.

  “A brisk stroll,” Ley said through gritted teeth. “Salutary for the constitution. Come on.” She hopped on one foot down the hall, tugging Zeddig alongside. “Break a leg. It’s your turn.” Her gasps of pain didn’t improve the joke, but Zeddig growled, and moved anyway.

  High metal warehouse shelves made narrow halls in the vast chamber. A golem forklift loomed in one corner, flat prongs jutting like tusks, cabin empty. Izza ignored the cramp in her side, and wondered if there was still a demon trapped within that metal chassis, its wards unbroken after all this time, wondered if the mind within still wanted to go home.

  She saw light—real sunlight, the pale Wasteland sky—through the open door. “There.”

  Something slithered over steel shelves. A goddess told her: duck.

  A weight of coiled muscle tackled her, grasping, twitching. She fought free and stabbed, felt the goddess blunt the poison pleasure the Wrecker fed into her vein. “Go!” Zeddig and Ley hadn’t broken stride. Of course. Every woman for herself now.

  A coil tried to catch Izza’s neck, but she ducked, wormed free and launched herself off the floor, running fast, so fucking fast, fastest thing on the islands with magic or without, no mainland Wrecker could catch her—even as Isaak, godsdamn Isaak, barreled unnecessarily to her rescue, grabbed the tentacles that had failed to snare her, lifted, slammed the Wrecker so hard into the shelves they toppled like tall slow dominos. Metal struts snapped, boxes fell, and Izza was still running, godsdammit, steal a page from those dumb hepcat meditation manuals the cabana bars back home left in toilet stalls for inspirational reading and go toward the light—

  Behind her, Isaak screamed.

  Behind her, Isaak fell.

  Behind her, Isaak prayed for a miracle.

  And she felt him pray, just like she felt Kai, like she felt the kids back home.

  Ley and Zeddig tumbled out to freedom.

  And Izza turned back.

  Isaak fought, tangled in Wreckers’ coils, scraping against the writhing limbs that slid into his armor’s gaps and pried. He roared, coated in purple blood. He was losing.

  The Lady’s stone gleamed on his
chest.

  Izza cursed herself, and cursed the Lady, and ran back to help.

  Behind her, the door swung shut.

  Fucking typical.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  ZEDDIG STUMBLED INTO LIGHT and, blinking, exhausted, tripped down concrete steps to collapse with Ley in sand. Her heart battered her ribs. Her lungs filled and emptied on their own.

  A short rest, that’s all you can spare. Ten seconds. Count them. Nine. Eight. On one, you get up, pull Ley up after you, and run for the Wastes. Bend over. Breathe. Watch a point between your hands. Let the world spin.

  “Zeddig,” Ley said beside her.

  Five. Four.

  “Zeddig. We have guests.”

  She looked up.

  Zeddig did not recognize the Craftswoman, but she saw Ley’s sister by her side.

  Zeddig tried to run, but the Craftswoman snapped her fingers, and her bones refused to cooperate.

  “Fuck” was the only word adequate to the situation.

  “Hello again, dear sister,” Ley said, from the ground. She laughed through the pain.

  “Talk fast,” the Craftswoman told Kai. “They’re coming.”

  Kai stepped forward. She looked at Ley, first, but she could not bear to hold her sister’s gaze for long. What made her turn away? The pain? The weakness? What did she see? This was her moment—her triumph, after Zeddig had warned her away. Was this Zeddig’s fault? Had she fucked them over? “I need the knife,” she said. “That’s all. The knife, and you go free.”

  “My friends?”

  “I can’t promise anything,” Kai said. “Bescond has them, and I can’t bargain until I have the knife. I’ll try to free them. But I don’t know what she’ll do. Give me the knife, and you go free. That’s what I can offer now.”

  Ley’s scornful laugh broke into a hiss. She pushed herself up, kneeling on one leg, the other straight behind her. “Nice fairy tale. If we run, they’ll chase us.”

  Kai shook her head. “Bescond doesn’t care about you. She wants the blade.” Behind, in the spire, someone screamed. Zeddig wondered if it was the girl. Kai twitched. Closed her eyes. Her hand went to her brow. When she looked up again, she was hard and sharp and brittle as a glass splinter. “Give it to me, Ley. And get the hells out of here.”